


After the Masque, Before Goodbye

by daystarsearcher



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: BDSM, F/M, First Time, Fourth Doctor's Scarf, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Roleplay, a.k.a. the scarf of obvious bondage implications
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5546912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daystarsearcher/pseuds/daystarsearcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene from 'The Masque of Mandragora,' featuring bickering, a surprising admission, and inventive use of the scarf. Also, kisses that taste like salami.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Masque, Before Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Doctor Who belongs to the BBC; I claim no rights and receive no remuneration.

She is wearing a shift borrowed from a maidservant of one of the guests; it is surprisingly cool and soft, but still it sets uneasily against her skin, makes her heart pound a little harder than it should. It keeps her from sleep and from her bed as she flits through the long dark halls of the castle, the stone floors cold against her bare feet. She is restless in her own body.

The shift is long and white and it looks—it _feels_ —far too much like the sacrificial robe.

So she wanders through the shadows of the halls, watching the way candlelight flickers on the stone and the heavy tapestries lap up the darkness, and listening to the secret night noises that flutter and rasp and scrape and sigh all around her, just beyond her vision.

Sarah comes upon her door; she must have circled back around again without realizing it. She rests her fingertips against the wood but can’t decide what to do next.

It’s decided for her with a muffled sort of crash from behind the door to her right, Hieronymus’s old workshop where the Doctor is supposed to be bedding down for the night. The crash is followed by some very colorful cursing. A smile steals across her lips before she even has time to think _Oh, you_.

She pushes his door open instead of hers. The Doctor is trying to sweep the smashed remains of a telescope under the rug. He is failing.

He doesn’t seem surprised to see her. “Would you like some of the salami?” he asks, picking it up off the table. “It’s really very good.”

“No thank you.” Her eyes are still adjusting to the dark; he has drawn the sash and the moon barely peeks through the shutters. The angles of his body are long inky lines against a deep grey wash. His eyes and teeth gleam in the black like secret, forgotten stars.

Her shift is so white and she feels like a ghost, glowing.

“I’m sorry for almost killing you.”

That flash of white again as he grins. “Oh, no harm done. All still in one piece.”

“You might not have been,” she insists. Takes a deep breath. “I want you to teach me how to resist hypnotism.”

The grin disappears, winks out like a light. “No.”

“Why not?” Sarah Jane demands. Her indignation is a spark of bright fire in her chest, and it feels good. Alive. “I’d rather like it if every alien Tom, Dick, and Harry weren’t getting their grubby fingers all over my mind every time I step out of the TARDIS, thank you very much.”

“You can thank those grubby fingers for the fact that you’re still here.” His crushed velvet voice has a core of steel. “If Hieronymus hadn’t bent your mind to his will, you would have been sacrificed to Demnos long before I could get to you.”

“I’d have figured out something on my own. I’m not completely helpless, you know,” she snaps back, and the spark grows, and it feels nice and normal and real to be bickering here with her Doctor, who’s being a right prat.

“You were sorely outnumbered, unarmed, and lost in a labyrinth. Not to dispute your ingenuity, but I imagine such a situation would have given you rather a bit of pause. It would have given me rather a bit of pause, and I’ve been getting nearly sacrificed to false gods for centuries now.”

She fights the smile he always manages to charm out of her. “You’re forgetting something.”

“Oh, yes, the knives. You were unarmed in a labyrinth, and outnumbered by a bunch of men with knives. I can see how that changes the situation in your favor.”

Sarah rolls her eyes. “A bunch of randy old men with knives, who were only too happy to take their time tying up their precious virgin sacrifice, and who gave me several openings that I could have taken advantage of, _if I hadn’t been hypnotized._ ”

“They were hardly hobbling and arthritic, and—” he stops, blinks. Two stars winking in and out of existence. “Virgin sacrifice? Why would it have been a virgin sacrifice?”

She shrugs. “Well, I thought the message was pretty clear. All that ‘innocent lamb’ and ‘the purity of your sacrifice’ business—not to mention that whole ‘Demnos will not be cheated of his pleasure, little one’ bit.” She scoffs. “Honestly, any more sexual subtext and I’d have thought I’d wandered onto the set of a porn film.”

He shuffles his feet, the words stumbling out. “Well, yes, but you’re not—are you? I mean, how—”

Oh. That’s what he’s confused about. Right.

“ _Some_ of us have self control.”Sarah makes sure to cut her eyes over to the salami; she’s certain there were two of them on that table when she told him goodnight a few hours ago.

“But—but you’re Sarah,” he says, so bewildered he’s almost plaintive. “Sarah Jane. And you’re lovely.”

“I’m just—waiting for the right time.” She crosses her arms and looks down, even though she knows he can’t see her blush. “You’re not going to be all awkward and stammer all the time now, are you? Why does it matter?”

It’s still too dark to see his features clearly, but his hands are twisting together in front of him, fiddling and wrenching at the scarf, and one hand moves away to push haphazardly through his curls.

She tries to tease him. “What, did I muck up your seduction scheme? I’m not exactly innocent either, if that helps anything.”

His head snaps up, eyes wide and shocked and guilty and she is just close enough and there is just enough light to see how they are also so very, very blue.

That scrap of color flickers like a flame inside her, warmth uncoiling and pooling in the pit of her stomach, sinking down between her thighs.

Her right foot steps towards him almost of its own volition. It startles her, to realize so suddenly what she wants. What she has been wanting. She takes another step towards him, deliberately this time, and then another. Tilts her head back and looks up at him and smiles with false bravado, her heart pounding as she loops her arms around his neck. “Well, if you’re not going to teach me not to get hypnotized, I suppose we could get me out of the running for ‘virgin sacrifice’ another way.”

His arms move automatically to wrap around her before he realizes what he’s doing and snatches them away, his hands still hovering awkwardly a few inches above her hips. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, nervous, uncertain. “On the other hand, virginity isn’t a necessity in every ritual. On Ranililan, in fact, the harvest festival demands a sacrifice of three sexually promiscuous single women and seventeen widows. And in the traditions of the Kelamar people of the Ceti Six moons, the sacrifices to their Tentacle God require—”

She tucks her head into his chest, rubs her cheek against the warm scratchy wool of his scarf. “Stop poking holes in my excuse,” she murmurs.

A sharp intake of breath, and then his arms tighten around her at her admission, and his head drops to press a kiss against her hair. “Oh, Sarah,” he rumbles, his voice gone low and rough and catching just a little, like the way the coarseness of his coat catches against the cotton of her gown.

“Doctor,” she whispers, and tilts her head back up.

His kisses taste of salami, spicy and savory, and his mouth moves against hers slow and studied and studying, finding what she likes. She kisses him back. Her heart is pounding louder than she has ever heard it, and she is solid in his arms, and though she can feel herself glowing she knows she is not a ghost at all.

His lips move down her jawline to her neck, exploring all the spots that make her moan and gasp and flush and dig her fingernails into his back as red spots dance in front of her eyes. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you managed to derail the conversation,” she says between gasps and the little moaning sounds that are, frankly, rather embarrassing but _oh, ooh, yes, just like that_ … “We’re going back to that later.”

“I refuse to shoulder the entire blame for the turn this discussion has taken,” he growls against her throat, the words vibrating against her skin, and sod him, there’s no way that should be as sexy as it is. He straightens to his full height again, the lines of his face as firm and serious as she has ever seen them, his voice grave as the law. His eyes… “I don’t ever want to see you hurt, my Sarah.”

His hands are burning through her shift with heat or cold, she can’t tell which. She grabs his face and kisses him again.

For awhile it’s just snogging, and his hands moving up and down her back in a way that’s technically chaste but she’ll be damned if it feels like it; touching her everywhere that’s innocent and coming so damn close to all the places that aren’t… “Tell me what you want,” he whispers, and his voice is nearly-silent thunder.

And she finds that there aren’t words made for what she wants, because she wants so many things and so many of them are things she shouldn’t want, or at least that’s what she’s been told (but never directly to her, never in so many words). They don’t make words for what she wants, or they do but not ones she knows how to say, not without embarrassment and shame and blushing and all the silly human things her Doctor has no patience for. 

He cups her cheek in his hand, nudges her chin slightly upward. Tweaks her nose, and she smiles, a little watery.

“If you’ve changed your mind…” he starts softly.

Sarah Jane shakes her head violently, no no _no_ , because if she knows one thing it’s that she wants _this_ , with him, right now. She turns her head to press her lips into the palm against her cheek, slides her tongue to the double pulse in his wrist. Nips at his thumb when he gasps.

He is breathing heavily now, and it is victory in her ears. “Tell me what you want,” he repeats, his voice even hoarser than before.

She stands on tiptoe to whisper into his ear, and she closes her eyes because it’s somehow easier. His curls are so soft next to her skin. “I want—you to—” Why won’t the words come? “I want what happened today, but—safe. With you. The getting tied up, and held down, but—with you. And safe.”

And she holds so still, a statue, until she feels the Doctor’s head nod, and then her heart starts to beat again, and she can breathe. There is no judgment in his hands, nothing but gentleness, as he runs them from her chin down to her hips and back up again, teasing at touching her breasts, hinting at her thighs. He frames her face between those long, gentle fingers and persuades her mouth open with his tongue, backing her up as he does so until she’s pressed against the wall.

There’s an outcropping of stone above her head, some sort of torch-holder carved into a gargoyle with a mouth so full of teeth it’s not unlike the Doctor himself. She smiles at that thought, and feels his echo of her smile against her lips. He ducks his head down to graze his teeth lightly, so lightly over her pulse point. He takes her wrists firmly between the thumb and forefinger of each hand—she flinches, still sore from the manacles, and he relaxes his grip—raising them to touch the cold stone, and she shivers.

The Doctor unwinds his scarf from about his neck, loops it around her wrists and around his gargoyle doppelganger. Sarah Jane’s breath catches in her throat as he trails his fingertips along the skin there, drags them along the fabric of her neckline to make ripples in the cotton. 

He kisses right where the fabric meets her skin, his lips crushing against her collarbone, tongue sliding beneath the hem. His hand glides down to her knee, pushes the cloth up to her thigh, his thumb slipping under the bunched-up skirt to brush against her knickers.

“Demnos will not be cheated of his pleasure, little one,” he grinds out, such a pitch-perfection imitation of Hieronymous that she starts back, head smacking the stones, hands tugging at the wool, before she remembers that it is the Doctor. He eases away from her slightly, still maintaining his grip, his left hand cupping the back of her head and soothing the tenderness there, running his fingers through her locks and massaging her scalp. Her Doctor, and he will never hurt her. He moistens his lips with a flick of that long, deft tongue, and when he speaks again the impersonation is ever so slightly flawed and she loves him for it, for the mercy with which he threads just a hint of his rich, deep tones through the cold hard words: “The maiden must be properly prepared for the sacrifice.” A rustle of fabric as his nail catches against her knickers, and his thumb slips inside her and she has to bite her lower lip to keep from crying out.

He removes his thumb to press it against her clit as he slides another finger in; moves slowly and deliberately and whispers harsh words in her ear, harsh as his breathing, telling her that she belongs to Demnos, that she exists for his satisfaction, to be used and used as he alone desires, that she is so tight and hot and wet and strong but helpless and _his_ —

She cries out, trembles and falls apart into his rough, callused hands.

Through a haze she feels him untie her, his fingers rubbing life back into her arms, stroking and soothing the burns left by the wool on her wrists. She lets her head fall against his chest, lets him lead her to the edge of his narrow white cot.

The Doctor eases her down, guides her onto her back and lays her out with exacting care, arranging the lay of her arms and the spread of her legs as though he is sculpting a masterpiece out of some incredibly fragile material. He removes her knickers, pulls the dress up above her waist and gives her thigh a firm squeeze as he does so. He clambers onto the cot between her legs, resting his weight on his knees as he starts to undo his belt. The sight of his elegant hands so near the straining fabric below sends an electric jolt right through her core, aftershocks skittering all over her exposed skin. He wants her. 

“Do we, ah—” The Doctor’s voice has gone suddenly unsure, and she looks up, tearing her gaze away from _that_ still-covered part of him to see that his forehead has gone creased and a little worried. “Should we put something down? It’s just that I’ve heard that…well, read that, human females sometimes, the first time—well, bleed…”

And oh, her heart is going to burst, a warm surge of tenderness riding along the waves of adrenaline and lust. Her heart is opening to him like a flower in the sun. _Oh, Doctor. Oh, you._

“Didn’t need anything just now, did we?” Sarah points out logically. She grins. “Didn’t think we would. I do have ten fully functioning fingers, and a long history of bicycle riding.”

“Ah, right—oh. Ah. I see.” For a second the Doctor looks irretrievably flustered, but then he grins back, wide and wicked. “Ten fully functioning fingers? You must tell me more about that sometime.”

“Oh, shut it, you.” She sits up to play-slap his shoulder, blushing. “Get back into character.”

His voice drops deep into the cult leader’s monotone, his hands on her shoulders pressing her back into the cot. “Prepare to surrender your purity to the gratification of Demnos.” He kisses her, hard, his teeth clinking against hers as he forces her mouth open. The sudden movement sends a cloud of dust up from the mattress, musty and mixed with the scents of delirium-inducing herbs and acrid chemicals. His lips still taste of salami, and his skin smells like sweat and cinnamon and oranges. His hands find her breasts, groping rough and crudely there, his body grinding into her, all hard planes and coarse fabrics against her mostly bare skin, delicious friction. She feels his right hand move down between them, finish unfastening his trousers. “Are you prepared to serve the will of Demnos?”

“I am,” she breathes, and he pushes inside her.

It hurts a little, at first, and she tries not to let it show because she’s afraid if she does he’ll stop and she won’t be able to bear it if he stops now, she will implode into nothingness and starlight. But he sees anyway, because he’s him, and he doesn’t stop, just holds still to let her adjust to him and covers her face with kisses, breaking character again but this time she doesn’t mind. When he does move he thrusts slow, so slow, so achingly measured and deliberate and leisurely that she feels she will melt, dissolve; she is winter ice thawing in his hands, warming and dying in the same caress.

He begins to pick up speed, his head falling into the crook of her neck, his breath hot quick puffs of air against her skin, echoing the tempo of her own breathing. His hands are on her hands, and she knows she is not allowed to touch him in this game but she is never going to be able to breathe without touching him so she strains up and sucks at a spot on his shoulder (salt and cinnamon and sunlight) and he groans so deep when she bites down that for a second she’s terrified she’s hurt him.

But then he’s moving more quickly, muffling his groans against the side of her neck, teasing her earlobe with his tongue and teeth, and he whispers all raspy and low, “Demnos is pleased with the offering” and she flies apart and _oh_ , supernovas have nothing on this—

He’s only a second or two behind in following her, and somewhere through the fog of decreasing adrenaline, satiation and exhaustion and delectable soreness, Sarah Jane feels a distinct stirring of…well, pride. Must not’ve been too shabby, then, shagging a silly little human.

She smiles, raising her hands to rub them all over his back, occasionally slipping beneath his coat or his shirt, taking her time to explore all the angles and surfaces and textures. Calming his double heartbeat and fast breaths to something below a gallop. “So,” she teases, “is this why you like humans so much?”

“Oh, Sarah Jane.” His voice is hoarse, but she can hear his smile. “It’s not even half of why I like _you._ ”


End file.
